


Catching Fireflies

by Nyruserra



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, WAFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyruserra/pseuds/Nyruserra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She supposed that she had never really thought about it much before that day – the day she saw him again, standing in the rain outside her door dripping and gorgeous, like a vision out of a hazy past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catching Fireflies

**Catching Fireflies**

 

She supposed that she had never really thought about it much before that day – the day she saw him again, standing in the rain outside her door dripping and gorgeous, like a vision out of a hazy past.  He held out a single, perfect lily to her (because a rose would be far too cliché), and gently traced her jaw-line from her temples to her chin, the feeling of the soft white petals like silk on her skin.  The light thrown by the streetlamp above reflected and refracted off the fine mist of rain spattering off his broad shoulders, creating a glowing aura of sorts, almost as if to define _this moment_ for the rest of her life.

 At least that’s how it would have happened if it was one of those addictive romance novels she kept carefully hidden down the side of her mattress, along with a box of chocolates, where no one would discover how soppy she could be on a Friday night when everyone had gone out and it was just her and Crookshanks and whatever was on the tellie.

No, actually, it was in the Magical Burns and Other Horrific Damage Unit (a name she felt shouldn’t be allowed – she meant, _really_.  How could you put your patient at ease in a department that was named to sound like it should be mopping up after one of those characters in the horror films that came in multiples like five or eight -the ones with guys wearing hockey masks or knives instead of fingers?)  And it certainly wasn’t raining – it was actually early morning (not a streetlamp in sight), without even an obliging sunbeam to break through the grey cloud cover to illuminate his wide cheeks or slightly crooked nose.  No, not even the weather was co-operating to ensure that Hermione recognised this as a defining, life-changing moment.

Instead, she tripped over him, as he sat patiently waiting until someone was free from dealing with those who had needed more urgent attention.

Perfect. 

He had been sent in after a particularly nasty raid, she learned later. 

Oliver Wood had always been someone she could chat with, someone she could laugh with even – though not in quite the same comfortable way that she could with Ron and Harry.  No, it had always been a bit different with him, as they approached life from two opposite corners.  But as time went by, Hermione discovered that it wasn’t opposite corners, but more like two different starting gates for the same track. 

She first met Oliver in the common room of theGryffindorTower, on her first night at HogwartsCastle.  She was gathered in a group with the rest of the new students at the base of a set of wide stone stairs.  A tall, red-headed boy with thick horn-rimed spectacles, who had been so kind to her after the sorting by answering all of her rapid-fire questions, was lecturing the new first-years on Things That Needed Knowing just before releasing them to their dorms for their first night in the strange, and somehow wonderful castle.

The common room was wide, and circular, as befitted a room in a tower, and full of laughing, busy students, many of whom were watching the nervous and (in many cases) yawning eleven and twelve year olds with amusement, and a few sniggers.  Hermione ignored all of this determinedly (including the group of boys behind her who had lost interest in Percy’s shared wisdom, and were fiddling with something one of them had in a pocket), intent on taking in every scrap of information being offered despite her weariness.  Surely,it must be over soon, and she could take her exhausted body off to bed…  She blinked her eyes fiercely, narrowing them in an attempt to keep her focus.  She would most certainly not give in to such nonsense, especially not in front of Percy… her thoughts drifted again, despite her best efforts to keep awake. 

“Give it a rest, Perce.  Can’ya not see tha’ the’re dead on the’re feet?”  A stocky boy with short-cut brown hair and laughing eyes nudged the tall red-head while nodding his chin in the direction of a boy that she had met on the train here named Neville, who, Hermione saw out of the corner of her eyes, was snoring gently, his chin resting on his chest.  Hermione let out a traitorous sigh of relief at this promise of reprieve.  Percy reluctantly released his charges to go to their beds, with a “Boys dormitories are at the top of the stairs to the left; girls, the same to the right.”  Hermione had never felt so grateful to someone in her life as she did to Scottish boy with the laughing eyes at that moment.  Glancing over to him as she struggled with leaden feet up the stone stairs, she distinctly saw him wink at her **.**

-..-

“So, where’re you’re two watch dogs today, lass?”  The soft burr broke into her studies, causing a small, but prim smile to cross the bushy-haired witch’s face.

“Oh, those two _boys_ are out trying Harry’s new broom.  It’s rather good, as I understand.”  Hermione kept her finger on the page, keeping her place as she looked up at Oliver as he stood by her table.  He had made a point of speaking with her ever since he had found her crying in the abandoned common room late one night, during those first horrible two months at the castle, when she had found herself friendless and a target for teasing.  Oliver had come down, all rumpled looking in his stripped pyjamas, with a small white trail at the corner of his mouth, and found her curled up on one of the short chesterfields by the fire, her face red and puffy as she cried.  He hadn’t really known what to do with her, and the memory of his awkward kindness made her smile fondly.  He was sure, after that, to make a point of speaking to her, and would sometimes set up with his books at the table she was working at, and just study companionably with her in silence.  He was very smart, a fact that was often overlooked by those around him, which really bothered Hermione.  All they seemed to see was his passion ‘Quidditch Captain’ persona, and dismissed him as an obsessed jock, when really he was so much smarter then that, and he understood the importance of dedication to something you loved, and never teased her about her studying habits; which even Harry and Ron would do, on occasion.

A few weeks later, she was attacked by a troll, and her life had surprisingly changed for the better.  She didn’t see as much of Oliver after that, but still spoke to him in the library, or in the common room, and still managed to have the occasional long discussion by the fire.  He would spend hours just answering her questions bout the Wizarding world, often  things he had grown up with and took for granted, and she would tell him about the Muggle world, and what it was like to grow up with Dentists for parents.  (She would never forget the look of utter fascination on his face as she struggled to explain just what a dentist _was._ What seemed to interest him most were her explanations of just _how_ Muggle Dentists managed to deal with problem teeth and gums, especially electric toothbrushes.)  He said he found it a great help, as he was taking Muggle studies that year.

“Hermione, lass, you’re killing me.  It was a Nimbus 2000 – he had it in practice today.”  Oliver seemed determined to make a Quidditch fan of her, which she, so far, had managed to resist, mainly to tease him.

-..-

“Let’s Go Gryffindor, Let’s Go!”

The chanting of the crowd around her was deafening.  She was having an amazing time, watching the Ravenclaw-Gryffindor game along with her housemates.  If she was completely hones– and she prided herself on being completely honest – at least half of her enjoyment came from the fact that the crowded stands were pushing her up tight against her companions; one of which happened to be Percy Weasley.  The middle Weasley child had seemed to be perfect to her, from the first time she had met him; he was a Prefect, studied almost as much as she did, and had a respect for the rules that showed, Hermione felt, deep character.  In short, he was a person one could look up to, on every count – and she did.  Oliver was the only one who knew of her small crush on the sixth-year Gryffindor Prefect, and he was kind enough not to smile at her about it.  The fact that Penelope Clearwater was pressed up on his other side only took away slightly from her enjoyment of the moment.

-..-

For Christmas that year, Oliver thought he’d try to be cute by getting her a quick reference chart for Quidditch with far more information then she could ever want, including sections on strategy planning, history of the game, various uniforms and their origins, and famous plays.  It also came complete with various moving tutorials, and historical notes on the origins of various broom models, and the ins and outs of the many fouls able to be committed during a game.  _It probably even told you what the different players had for breakfast that morning,_ Hermione thought to herself with sarcastic amusement at his joke, _just so that you could examine the impact of different breakfast cereals on performance, or something equally stupid._

The attached note said:

**H,**

Can’t have a friend of mine going around ignorant of her own friends broom models.

I’m sure this will give you many hours of pleasure, and I expect you to have a full

summary for me by the end of next week, Missy.

I even circled the Nimbus 2000 for you.  

Happy Christmas,

**O**

 

_She_ got _him_ a battery-powered toothbrush. 

-..-

 

_Tap, tap, tap.  Jiggle.  Tap, tap, tap_.

Oliver was unknowingly shortening his life expectancy by the second.  Hermione was curled up at her favourite table in the library today, trying desperately to find a reference she only vaguely remembered reading a some time ago… Harry had heard that voice again, the one only he could hear, on the way out to the pitch that morning, and staring around at the walls, she felt an epiphany wash over her so fast, she felt giddy with the realization.   _Pipes._   They ran all over the school…but _what_ exactly was using the pipes?  And how could it be something that only Harry could hear?  Her eyes followed a small, scuttling dot make its desperate way out of the crack in the glazed window beside them… _spiders flee before it…_ Hastily she’d  told Ron and Harry she had to check something in the library, and sprinted the rest of the way here, with just that one line dancing through her head, tantalizingly—

_Tap, tap, tap.  Jiggle.  Tap, tap, tap._

 but for the life of her, she just couldn’t seem to concentrate enough to bring the book she had read it in to mind – though the fact that Oliver had come to join her might be affecting her ability to concentrate slightly.  Normally, that wasn’t a problem, as she rather enjoyed spending time with her friend, but today, he seemed really agitated, and was bouncing his leg up and down, and hitting the underside of the table softly with his knee in time to his thoughts.  Papers were strewn across their normally neat study area, and he seemed to be in deep concentration, as he mangled yet another quill by chewing on the end, compulsively.  Small diagrams, featuring circles and x’s, moved across the parchments that spilled onto the empty chairs around them.  Looking at her watch, Hermione couldn’t help a small frown of concern.

“Don’t you have a game you’re supposed to be at, Oliver?”  He jumped as her voice broke into whatever he had been concentrating on. 

“I go’ five minutes yet.  I was tryin’ to iron out the problems wit’ this play – it would really use Bell’s talents for low level scoring, if I could jus’ … I thought I had it perfect, but this morning Hufflepuff announced the’re using a second-string beater, in place of Abbott who’s still out with that wonky tentacle thingy. An’ I realized it won’t work, not against the second-string’s style, anyway.  It’s my las’ year, an’ I want to see Gryffindor’s name on that cup this time…It should have been ours for two years running now!”  His normally friendly face was frowning in frustration, intently focused on the off-white parchment in front of him, as if hoping if he stared at it hard enough, the little figures on the page would rearrange themselves, and give him the answer he so desperately needed.

Shyly, Hermione crossed behind him to look over his shoulder.  “Let me see?” 

Oliver looked at her for a moment, and then passed her the sheet while he began to pick up his books and papers, stuffing them unceremoniously into his bag.  “Might as well, I haven’t got time to fiddle with it anymore – they’re going to be waiting on me if I don’t get down there.”

Hermione only half heard him, as she stared at the strategy he had laid out in minute detail before her.  She was very familiar with his tiny drawings, having spent quite a few evenings in the library studying, while he worked on new plays to train his team on.  Being friends with someone like Oliver Wood meant that you couldn’t help but pick up on the nuances of his passion, almost by osmosis.  He had been determinedly teaching her the intricacies of the game for the last two years, and she now knew a lot more about the sport then Ron or Harry would ever suspect.  This was just like a logic puzzle, the ones where you had to stop focussing on the smaller images, so that the larger image could resolve itself into a pattern you never suspected was there– and just like that, suddenly she had it.  It was a small thing, really.  No wonder he hadn’t seen it – he had probably been staring at it for hours.  “Um, Oliver, what if you do it _this_ way…”

Looking over at where she had hastily scribbled corrections on his sheet, his face broke into an excited grin.  “How did you figure tha’ out?”  His excitement was very contagious, and was making her giddy.

“Sports strategy is mostly just probabilities and statistics, you know, which means it’s really just numbers, when you get right down to it – and if there is one thing I excel at, Mister Wood, its numbers,” shetold him somewhat bossily as he gathered the now-corrected sheet reverently from her hand, pecked her on the cheek, and ran out of the library.

Turning back to her books, she thought, _Spiders flee before it….  Spiders flee…_   _Oh, this was just getting irritating no_ w!  She watched idly as the Ravenclaw Prefect, Penelope Clearwater, pulled out a small hand mirror and began checking her hair.  Wait, she had been in the library after a fight with Ron that day… she usually went to an old standby for comfort when that happened, but none of her favourite books that were currently on the shelves held her interest, so she had looked further a field…. _Of course_!  Now she remembered where she had read it!

All you had to do was step back, and look at the larger picture.

-..-

“We Won The Cup!  We Won The Cup…”

Even now, after hours of partying, the chant could still be heard in the Gryffindor common room that night.  Hermione had waited until the life of the party had died down to a dull roar before finding her friend at a table that was shadowed by the stairs leading up to the dormitories.  Surprisingly enough, Crookshanks was contentedly kneading his thigh, as the still somewhat stunned looking man– and she guessed she now had to think of him as a man, she was startled to realize–  absently scratched him behind the ears.  “So, off to blaze a name for yourself in the national leagues, are you Mister Wood?”  she asked lightly.

“Eh?  Nationals?  Not bloody likely, straight away like this.  More likely, if I get scouted at all, it’ll be to a reserve placement for some farm-team somewhere – I don’ think you’ll be reading about me in the Prophet for a good number of years yet, Miss Granger, though I’ll be sure to send you a copy of all my articles, so you can clip them like a good little fan girl!”  He laughed as she shoved him for his teasing.

They spent the rest of the evening conversing quietly about their plans for the future, and Hermione found it a relief, for one night, to put aside her worries for Harry, and Sirius Black, and just spend quiet time with her friend.

-..-

**Hermione,**

I think you may have given up on divinations too early, lass, because

you must have looked in your crystal ball that night, after we won the Cup.

I just signed with Puddlemere United Quidditch Club!  I mean, it’s a

ruddy national team!  I’m contracted as a reserve, but if things work out well,

and I get some good breaks, I’ll be on the main team in a couple of years, and

I’ll be able to send you those articles to clip – my very own fan girl.

 

**Yours,**

**Oliver Wood**

**-..-**

They kept in contact over the next year, sending sporadic owls between her very busy school schedule (she now had to help Harry train for the Tournament, in addition to her normal work load.  Not that she was complaining, she would never leave Harry in the lurch), and his heavy training season.  Somehow, though, he always managed to be there with a kind word when she needed it.

**Hermione,**

What is it with you and the Weasley men?  Don’t worry, lass,   Ron will come around

eventually, and in the mean time, enjoy your time with Mister Krum – but if he acts

inappropriately, you just make sure you let me know, and I’ll sort him out right

quick.  If Ron’s too blind to be able to appreciate what a great girl you are, just

bid your time.  He just needs to grow up a little bit more first, then he’ll be falling all

over himself to make up for lost time – you just mark me now.

In the mean time, I hope I can still count on you to be clipping my articles, ‘cause

I know how to appreciate a good thing when I see it.

**Yours,**

**Oliver**

-..-

“…And it’s Fanahagn to Wensdale, Wensdale coming up fast now on the English Keeper, looks like he’s got a direct line on the center goal…  Since coming up from the Reserves last year, Wood’s never missed a shot on the center goal, may I remind you…  And it’s a perfect save!  Number 99 does it again!  Sarievski is flying high, he’s – That ruddy…!  Where’s the ref?  That was clearly an illegal shoot!  Take him out of the game!....”

“…Medi-wizards took the Puddlemere Keeper off the field today after a vicious bludger attack initiated by the Whimbourn beater, Sarievski.  Mister Wood’s condition has been stabilized, but it is unknown at this time when he will be returning to play.  Sarievski will be facing …”

-..-

**Hermione,**

 

Thanks for your owl – your parchment was the first thing they gave me when I woke up

yesterday.  Now, really though, I think it’s a bit unkind to call me a prat for scaring you,

don’t you think?  I mean, it was _my_ head…  And in comparison to the scare you gave me last

year, after that Department of Mysteries debacle, I don’t think my little tumble should

even show up on the radar.  Talk about scarring a bloke…

They tell me that I should be out of here in a couple more days, and I’ll be fit to rejoin

the team in a month or so, so all’s well, never fear, I shall not disappoint my adoring

fan(s) for long, my dear.

**Always,**

**Oliver**

**P.S.** find enclosed one article, from the Daily Prophet, no less, on my accident.  I told you I’d sent them for clipping, now didn’t I?

-..-

She knew she should be happy to find that he was bravely working to end the war, but somehow she couldn’t help but feel some days, that she preferred him on the pitch, instead.  At least there, all she really had to worry about was stray bludgers, and the odd foul….

Really, she had enough friends to worry about, she explained to herself, when she got nervous for him.

-..-

The war had ended, not with a bang, but with a whimper, as the paraphrased from a very wise Muggle, Thomas Stern Eliot.  The ‘final’ battle had ended with Voldemort’s defeat at Godric’s Hollow, ironically finishing his downfall where it had begun seventeen years prior. Unfortunatley, his followers still seemed to have plenty of fight left in them, and appeared to be willing to exercise previously unsuspected intelligence once free of the dominating presence of their Lord.  _It would appear_ , Hermione thought ruefully, _that Tom Riddle’s new family had liked him no better then his old one had._

Hermione, who had apprenticed with Snape with long hours spent with him researching potions during their efforts with the Order, continued on, to become a licensed Medi-witch.  She had abandoned the idea of being an Auror shortly after her fifth year at Hogwarts, having never really wanted it in the first place – it had been Ron’s ambition for her, one she had willingly gone along with in the hopes of eventually showing him what he was missing; but somewhere during the summer of her fifth year, she began looking at Ron more and more like a little brother, and less and less like someone who it would be desirable to snog.  ‘Time breeds familiarity’, they say, and apparently, family ties, too.  So, she enjoyed living her romances out vicariously through her reading habits, when no one could catch her at it, enthusiastically helping to marry Ron off when he finally proposed, to Pansy Parkinson of all people (whom she now considered a dear friend, despite their history), and helping Harry move in with Seamus when they felt they were ready. 

Her owls with Oliver were becoming even more sporadic with the passing years, a fact that occasionally bothered her, when she had time to miss him.  She knew that he had gone on to become an Auror sometime after Cornelius Fudge had left office, and the Ministry had begun to function effectively again (mainly, by realizing that yes, there was indeed a threat from Lord Voldemort, and that they should definitely do something about it), and occasionally heard what he was up to through Percy, whom she when out with occasionally to commiserate their single status together.  (She had abandoned her slight crush years before, when Percy had shown himself to have similar taste in dates as she did.)  The war was technically over, after Harry had defeated Voldemort, but the raids were still continuing, as the Aurors continued to track down the remaining Death Eaters, and brought them to justice.  Hermione scanned the Daily Prophet headlines everyday before work,  telling herself that she owed it to Harry, to make sure nothing had happened to him  over night as he lead team after team against the remaining  Dark Wizards.  The fact that she would pick up any news of someone as famous as Harry over the Wizarding Wireless faster then the Prophet would be able to report it, she didn’t acknowledge to herself. 

-..-

It was early morning in the ward for Magical Burns and Other Horrific Damages Unit – it was un-obligingly cloudy, and not at all romantic, when Hermione Jane Granger was walking down the East corridor, on her way to the tea-room for a quick cuppa, nose buried in a chart for Mister Mccrayic, who had just managed to land himself in the ‘industrial’ hex removal ward – again.  _Really, you would think that someone who got into trouble as much as he seemed to would learn…._   When she felt her feet connect with something solid, she didn’t even have time to get her hands out in front of her before she felt her self falling.  She was mortified when her decent was arrested by a pair of strong, but gentle hands as they caught her mid-flop.

It wasn’t that she minded being caught, mind you.  She’d really rather not end up on the floor… it was just that well, one of those hands, in it’s enthusiasm, had landed somewhere highly embarrassing…and rather sensitive, you see.  Once the hands seemed to realize exactly where they had placed themselves, they hastily beat a retreat back to their owner.  Face bright pink, Hermione turned to at least thank her would-be rescuer.

It was uncooperatively overcast that morning, without a single streetlamp in sight in that narrow corridor on the third floor on the way to the tea room.  There was no fine mist to cause the light to refract into a prismatic halo around his broad form.  Not a single obliging sunbeam was present to illuminate his slightly crinkle-lipped smile as he looked at her, to define _this_ moment, to make sure that Hermione Granger recognized _this_ instant for the rest of her life.  He wasn’t holding a glowing white lily, or any other flower for that matter, in his hands, as he sat there patiently, waiting to have what looked like a nasty hex-burn looked at, she noted distractedly.

No, none of the things that would have been present in her favourite romance novel were actually there, and as Hermione saw Oliver’s warm brown eyes light up as he smiled at her, she found she didn’t need them to recognize this moment for what it was.

The End


End file.
